“Have you read this book?” the woman asked as she picked up a copy of The Day the Angels Fell. The question was directed at my wife, Maile, while she worked at my mom’s market stand. Mai was taken aback – the woman’s question came out intense, pointed.
Have you read this book?
“Actually,” Maile said. “My husband wrote it.”
“Really,” the woman said, examining the back. “Could it be possible death is a gift?”
“You know,” the woman said, “This was me. I almost died ten years ago – the doctors gave me a 10% chance of living. My son was eight years old at the time. He’s never really recovered from that. He’s very anxious about death.”
She turned the book over.
“What gave your husband the idea of writing about death like this?” she asked Maile, and Maile told her the story of me spending time in Turkey with a missionary who was dying of cancer.
“I need to read this,” the woman said quietly. “Maybe it’s a book I could work through with my son. Maybe it will help him be less afraid.”
She bought the book, and before she left she stared intently at Maile again.
“This is a God thing,” she said before she walked away. “I know it is. This is a God thing.”
* * * * *
There are few things that make me happier than when someone is caught up in the main question from The Day the Angels Fell: “Could it be possible that death is a gift?” I don’t know the answer to that, for sure. I have my suspicions. And I love it when you folks come along for the ride, enter into the questions with me.
Maybe you know someone who needs to read this book? Here are just a few places where you can grab a copy in time for Christmas: